


Tercio de Muerte

by harpylatte



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Abuse, Blood, Bullfighting, Catholicism, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 05:18:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13116864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harpylatte/pseuds/harpylatte
Summary: In early 1900's Spain, a bullfighter captivates his audience and soothes his own cruel inclinations.A short drabble of Ardyn as a matador.





	Tercio de Muerte

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything seriously for a long time, and I'm not entirely confident about my writing skills? lmao. This is very short. But you gotta start somewhere.
> 
> I have a full plot thought out for this AU (help), but I'm not sure I'll have the energy for it... so there may or may not be more of this. Regardless, I can't stop thinking about Catholic Matador!Ardyn, and maybe you'll find it interesting as well?
> 
> Thanks for reading!

A flash of gold.

The streets nearby the arena smell of cigarette smoke, dust, and cured meats. Old women with kerchiefs tied round their heads gossip by the street corners, water the geraniums at their windows, watch the hustle and bustle of their neighbors with lazy camaraderie. In the markets, men and women deliberate over the ripeness of peaches and figs, the freshness of mollusks. Radios fizzle in and out, shifting between a sermon on the Beatitudes and a playful Galician jota.  
Everyone has to speak a little louder when the crowd cheers, which happens increasingly often.

A flash of black.

Inside the arena, the crowd gives another shout of encouragement as Ardyn Lucis Caelum sends a large white-speckled bull charging in a smooth arc, scarlet cape billowing out low beside him. He is tall and broad-shouldered, wild hair the color of wine tied back messily into a bun. His uniform is a rich black, accented with golden embroidery of floral design, the shimmering roses clinging snugly to his ribs and thighs. The matador steps to the side, circling carefully as the bull takes a moment to recover some feet away. He takes his own moment now, tearing his gaze from the beast and throwing a confident kiss to the crowd, who takes it with another cheer, a delighted laugh. They love the man with the nonchalant strut, skin tanned dark from the sun, clean-shaven and grinning wildly. He seems to love them back.

The bull is notably weaker on its next charge, heaving air raggedly, already bloody from its previous runs with the picadores. The banderillas stuck at the base of its neck look like wisteria, a gory bouquet. Ardyn's focus has shifted once again, now intense. Gone is the easy smile as he shouts at the bull, the call lost to all but himself and the beast among the dull cheers of the crowd. Still, it spurns the bull to charge with renewed vigor, and charge again as Ardyn switches his sword to his right hand.  
He gives a sharp whistle, a harsh command as his golden eyes go dark, furrowed in concentration, and the next time the bull charges at him, Ardyn's blade sinks smoothly into the beast, down to the hilt. 

A flash of red.

The crowd roars as the bull stumbles, and Ardyn pulls himself away to face them all, a spray of blood practically unnoticeable on his suit except for where it soaks into his white shirt and paints the roses on his chest scarlet. Hands raise in the air, waving white handkerchiefs boisterously with their cheers, and his grin is back, lopsided and handsome. His own hand rises to his neck, pulls the wooden rosary out from underneath his collar and from around his head, wraps it easily around his fingers. He brings his fist, clenched tight, to his lips and closes his eyes hard, eyebrows furrowed once more as he kisses the beads with devoted passion. When he raises his fist exuberantly into the air, the crowd roars once again.

Ardyn Lucis Caelum, their son and brother, pictures himself stabbing the bull clumsily so as to draw out the beast's pain, again and again and again and again. His smile widens. The crucifix on the rosary swings lazily. The cheers go on.


End file.
